


What Happens in Himring

by teasoni



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Cousin Incest, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Not Beta Read, Oral Sex, Power Play, Rimming, Sexual Roleplay, Sort Of, finally some dicks get sucked!!!!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-09 05:49:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17996099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teasoni/pseuds/teasoni
Summary: It is always a difficult decision when, every springtime, High King Fingon receives summons from Himring. For Fingon despises the cold, and Himring is perhaps coldest and bleakest of all the Western lands - but nestled within the unforgiving hills burns a flame whose warmth Fingon desires more greatly than anything.Maedhros.





	What Happens in Himring

**Author's Note:**

> i just.... i love them....
> 
> [un beta'd]

Fingon loved Maedhros. Truly he did – and yet he despised little more than his trips to Himring, many of which were forced upon him by diplomacy or the behest of his kin. He much preferred when Maedhros led his entourage down through the hills to fairer lands, and there were few things that could raise his heart like the gleam of Maedhros’s van passing through the Gap. Though desolate, Fingon’s realm was gentler than that of Himring, where elf and beast and bird alike seemed to reside under inexhaustible duress. That and the _cold_ ; summer scarcely touched that part of the world, though Fingon always supposed that Maedhros had quite enough of fire and heat after he returned from Angband.

And indeed Fingon despised the cold as much as his cousin despised the heat; his crossing of the Helcaraxë was a trauma that had settled deep within the marrow of his bones, a cancer of rot from which he could not free himself, and even in the most sweltering of Beleriand’s summers he still felt the chill sweep over him. Part of him wondered if he would ever be truly warm again; the only times he was able to forget the unforgiving bitterness of the Ice was when he was consumed by Maedhros’s fire, by his spirit. Hithlum was a barren and cold land, certainly, but it was by far fairer and greener than Himring, whose hills were barren save for the black trees that sprouted like bones from the earth.

Yet though Maedhros was often willing to depart his hilltop fortress and venture out into the wide lowland plains, there were times he could not depart, sometimes for many months. And during these times his heart was wanting, for the March was perilous to pass in the deep winter, and very few letters came or went from Himring to Hithlum, for the distance was too great even for Fingon’s falcons to bear. Those winters were long and dark and more difficult than Maedhros would ever care to admit.

And so it happened that upon the first thaw of springtime Fingon would receive summons to Himring. Usually he would blanch and decline, and he and Maedhros would sojourn once more in the lowlands or in Hithlum, which was more forgiving in both weather and passage; but on occasion Maedhros would be tethered by duty to his realm, as was his wont, and so Fingon was forced to decide between comfort or him whom he loved most in the world.

It was, always, a difficult decision, and it always resolved in the same fashion. Fingon would place sown the summons and gaze upon Maedhros’s seal for a moment, and then he would turn to his safe-box and draw forth the signet ring Maedhros had given him in Tirion, when they were not Fingon and Maedhros but _Findekáno_ and _Maitimo_ , fair and unmarred and young. He would sigh, glance upon the summons once more, and call for provisions to be gathered and an envoy to be arranged.

Even despite the unforgiving journey to Himring, the first sight of the fortress upon its hilltop always brought awe to Fingon’s heart – it stood black and stark against the sky, rising amidst a sea of undulating hills and trees. Great black birds would take to the skies at their passing, and as the hills shrouded them from the sunlight Fingon no longer felt as grand, nor as powerful, as when the sun gleamed against his standard. This land did not heed him, did not recognise him as the High King of the Noldor, and was as wild and as untamed as the eastern lands beyond.

“Cousin!” Maedhros called the moment Fingon passed through Himring’s great iron gates; he always met him like this, arms thrown wide and smiling, something so rarely seen upon Maedhros’s face in those days. Grief lay within him like a disease of the blood, and it was only when Fingon – haggard and bitter as he was from the long journey across Beleriand – passed into his fortress that true joy ever leapt into his eyes. Fingon was glad to dismount his steed and embrace his cousin, warm and fragrant, and the strong hand pressed against his neck was welcomed. They could not, of course, press their mouths together the way they wished so desperately to; they were in the middle of a busy courtyard, surrounded by staff and kin alike. And so they merely shared the smallest of smiles and the slightest presses of hands over hearts. A salute, a curt nod, a call to his company, and it was over.

“Come inside,” Maedhros bade him. “I shall see your companions housed comfortably. Ai, my waiting has been sore and long.”

“As has mine,” Fingon replied. Nothing more was said.

Himring was just as bleak as Fingon remembered it. It had been many years since he had last walked its halls and yet all seemed quite the same: bare stone and iron sconces, tapestries of old legends, of Valinor and the Doom that hounded them all. Fingon found it rather depressing, in truth, and yet it suited Maedhros in a strange sort of way. Fingon did not comment as he was led through the labyrinthine hallways, sidestepping many soldiers and servants who bowed and glanced away as they passed. Maedhros said no word, and neither did Fingon. He watched the way Maedhros’s hair shone like hammered copper even in the watery winter light, as though it was alight with a glow of its own.

“I shall see to it that a bath is prepared,” Maedhros said as he let Fingon into his chambers. They were the same chambers he always occupied upon his visits to Himring: wide, low-ceilinged rooms carpeted with rich colours and lit by the glow of many candles. The bed was wide and thrown with furs and pillows, and after spending many days on the still-frozen road, it was the most appealing sight Fingon could ever have hoped to imagine.

Save for one thing.

Gently, Fingon closed the door behind them, sealing them off from the rest of the fortress and securing the silence around them. The rooms were at the farthest end of Himring’s residential wing, and though they overlooked the ocean-like wastes to the north and had many windows to bear the sky upon them, they might as well have been shut in the very bowels of the mountain for the privacy they were allowed. It was silent and still.

“Your hospitality is boundless, as always,” Fingon said, and Maedhros glanced at him in question of the authority in his tone. “However, there is one thing I must see to.” And, with that, Fingon grasped Maedhros’s tunic in his fists, pushed him hard against the door, and kissed him.

Maedhros’s grin was visible for but an instant before Fingon’s mouth was on him; it was a vicious thing, gleaming and hungry as a starved wolf, and even just a glimpse of it had Fingon’s blood singing with excitement and dreadful longing. Maedhros’s body was warm and solid beneath his hands, and he flattened his palms against him, tracing the strong line of his torso and his waist until he could slip his hands beneath Maedhros’s cloak.

“I missed you so,” Maedhros rasped, teeth nipping at Fingon’s lip in a strangely playful way. He pushed himself into Fingon’s hands and let out a shaking breath, the sound of a starving man tasting honey. “I could scarcely bear it –,”

“I marched many leagues over frozen and difficult ground to be here,” Fingon told him, his own voice deep and husky, and he raised a hand to stroke his fingers across the tender skin of Maedhros’s throat. “My men are weary and hungry and must spend the next few weeks holed up in this _monolith_ –,” Here Maedhros laughed, only to be silenced by Fingon’s fingers, which pressed quickly to his tongue; Maedhros admitted them to his mouth and, holding Fingon’s eye, lathed at them in a manner nothing short of obscene. “When they could be with their families in warmer, fairer lands. And I was dragged from my duty as High King to entertain your _needs_ –,”

Fingon’s words were broken off abruptly as Maedhros thrust a thigh up between his legs; he hissed, pressing his fingers deeper into Maedhros’s mouth, using his other hand to wrestle the leg from between his own.

“You have much to answer for.”

Maedhros’s eyes gleamed and he drew Fingon’s fingers from his mouth, pressing them along his throat and against the slip of skin at his collar; and then he sank slowly to his knees. It was a game they played, sometimes, when their stress mounted too high or their longing too deep. “Then allow me to answer for it.”

Oh, but Fingon loved him like this: Maedhros, firstborn son of Fëanor, tall and fiery and dreadful, kneeling and gazing skyward with heated cheeks and a mouth far too wicked and delicious to ignore. Maedhros the Powerful, Fingon thought, rightful heir of the Noldor, brought to his knees before his usurper. He reached out and stroked Maedhros’s face, running his thumb across the scars that warped it, tenderness rising in his chest. For he had missed him so terribly – the thought of seeing Maedhros had kept him glad.

“How beautiful,” Fingon murmured, carding his fingers through Maedhros’s hair. Ah, _beautiful_ – the word that inspired Maedhros’s wrath. Maedhros was not beautiful any longer; his time upon Thangorodrim had marred him beyond all pretence of beauty, leaving him misshapen and scarred, but when Fingon had him like this he could not help but tremble and flush like a virgin and feel, at least for a little while, fair. “I truly adore you like this.”

But Fingon was a man of action, as always, and so he turned from Maedhros and made towards the bed, slipping free of his overcoat and leathers. “Crawl to me.”

Maedhros’s eyes were nigh black as coal. Crawl he did, dragging his clothes across the floor, eyes anchored on Fingon, aching with hunger. His face was even warmer, now, and as Fingon sat back on the end of the bed he crawled right between his knees, resting one hand on one thigh, and the stump of his wrist on the other. Again Fingon caressed him, and again Maedhros sighed in wanting, pushing his face into the touch.

“Let me serve you, my King,” Maedhros murmured against Fingon’s palm, which moved then to press his head down against the junction of his thighs. His breeches were musky from travel and it was anybody’s guess when Fingon last had the chance to bathe; but Maedhros _liked_ that. He liked vile things, something that only Fingon was fully aware of (and, perhaps, wont to exploit). He breathed in deeply and trembled.

It was amusing, almost, how clumsy Maedhros became when consumed by lust. He tugged at Fingon’s laces with his fingers and his teeth, and the moment he was drawn forth from his confines Maedhros pressed his face against the skin of his groin and breathed in once more. Fingon’s hand tightened in his hair. “I did not bring you here to huff my scent like a bitch,” he said, and Maedhros’s eyes closed very briefly. “Put that prideful mouth of yours to use.”

The scene was one they played out often. Yet it never seemed to lose its appeal, and the sensation of power, of _ownership_ , forever remained fresh. The first touch of Maedhros’s mouth on his cock had Fingon calling to Varda – though he wasn’t sure she would appreciate it – and he could _feel_ Maedhros smirk around his girth. Nobody aside from Fingon – and perhaps Maglor – knew of Maedhros’s affinity for guidance. How he craved a commanding touch, to be shoved down, to be brought to his knees. And nobody aside from Maedhros knew how utterly the lust for power pervaded Fingon: gentle Fingon, fair Fingon, valiant Fingon. Maedhros allowed him an evil that, beyond their bedroom door, would be otherwise horrifying.

“Ai,” Fingon sighed. “How I have missed this –,”

“‘This’?” Maedhros echoed, drawing off Fingon’s cock with an obscene noise. Fingon’s cock twitched at the sound of it. Maedhros, smirking still, rose between Fingon’s legs and pushed him bodily backward until they were both lying half on the bed. Maedhros did not kiss him, but he held his face close, his breath washing hot over Fingon’s ear. “Did you not miss me, cousin? Or was it just my mouth you craved?”

Fingon chuckled and hauled them both properly onto the furs. There they rolled, tousling like elflings in the springtime of youth, before Fingon gained the upper hand and asserted himself over Maedhros’s long, pale body. He parted the robes with his hands, feeling each contour and rise and fall, drinking it in as though to quench himself of his absence.

“Oh, no, not just your mouth, don’t be absurd.” Fingon was smiling, now. “There are quite a few other areas I missed –,” He laughed as Maedhros vaulted from the bed and caught his mouth in a kiss. “Enough games,” he pleaded when they finally broke apart. “The winter has been long and lonesome. I was colder than I have been in many years.”

“Allow me to warm you,” Maedhros murmured, putting his arms about Fingon and drawing him down into the cradle of warm pillows and furs. “My Findekáno.”

Fingon, helpless against the surge of pure _love_ in his breast, keened. Maehdros would not let him utter _Maitimo_ , not even in the deepest throes of their affection, but he would call Fingon by his father-name with no qualms, and loved very dearly the softness that the name inspired.

“Stay with me tonight,” Fingon whispered against Maedhros’s lips, and his plea was followed by a firm kiss, his hardness rutting against Maedhros’s stockings, which sat now askew. Even as he spoke Fingon fought to wrestle them off. “I think I might die if you refuse.”

Maedhros chuckled at the absurdity of it – but it was true, for he felt the desperate pull of grief at the mere thought of leaving Fingon’s arms.

“As my king commands.”

Soon they were both clad in nothing but their flesh, and they glimmered with sweat; the briskness of late winter seemed realms away now, in that close and private room, warmed as it was by great braziers and by Maedhros’s pounding heart. Fingon, grasped by a sudden, inexplicable desperation, spread Maedhros’s thighs and settled himself between them.

“Should I open you with my tongue?” he rasped against Maedhros’s inner thigh; the muscle jumped beneath his cheek. “Or with my fingers? You did suck them so well before.”

“Both,” Maedhros demanded, earning him a sharp pinch behind the knee. “Please! Please.”

Oh, but if that word did not sound so sweet coming from such an unforgiving mouth – Maedhros was not known to bargain, much less to plead, and so, naturally, it was the thing Fingon loved making him do the most. He fixed Maedhros with eyes made bright with desire and dipped his head between those long, cream-pale thighs.

Maedhros’s entire body shuddered when Fingon’s mouth pressed for the first time against his groin. Fingon’s nails bit into the soft flesh of his inner thighs, pinching every now and again just enough to make him prickle with the pain of it, but his mouth was gentle as Fingon nuzzled at Maedhros’s cock. He was already achingly hard – he had been hard since Fingon had kissed him, since he had shoved him into the door with such force. Already he was slick, and Fingon lapped at the wetness with his tongue, smirking when he met Maedhros’s eyes and saw them already bleary with pleasure.

“Cousin,” Maedhros rasped; the stump of his arm butted against the back of Fingon’s head as though he had forgotten it was not there, but Fingon only took him deeper into his throat, working his tongue until Maedhros threw back his head and let out a groan that seemed to shake the very walls.

Fingon’s mouth trailed from Maedhros’s spit-slick cock down over his perineum and to his softest, most sensitive of places. He laid his tongue there, working it as best he knew how, and soon employed the aid of his fingers when Maedhros’s body had softened just enough. Within a half-hour Maedhros was melting and keening against his cousin’s mouth.

“You are… far too talented at this sort of thing…” Maedhros murmured when Fingon finally drew back from him, massaging his aching jaw. He was still buried in Maedhros to the knuckles of three fingers, and curled them viciously until Maedhros’s thighs began to shake.

“One thing can be said for immortality,” Fingon said by way of reply. “It has given me many, many years to learn what your body craves.”

Their eyes met, both bright with the ache of being parted for so long.

“I cannot wait,” Fingon rasped. Maedhros grinned, mad as a dog.

“Then don’t.”

With a strangled moan Fingon seized Madhros’s hips and wrenched him down the furs, pinning his knees to his shoulders and cradling his hips against his own. It was wet and slick and delicious –

Maedhros’s hair flared about him like a flame, bright and beautiful against the furs, and he howled with delight a Fingon sank into him. He was not quite prepared enough, but Fingon was slicked and skilful, and within a few deep thrusts Maedhros was rocking against him and gasping for each breath. The air had grown unbearably hot and both of them gleamed with sweat as they moved against the furs, but they did not care, oh, they did not care – nothing mattered in the world to them except one another.

They wrung every drop of pleasure they could from each other. Fingon’s braids gleamed black and gold and Maedhros’s eyes remained fever-bright, his hand searching for every inch of Fingon’s skin he could reach. And Fingon held him, despite his punishing thrusts, as a lover; as though they could perhaps melt into a single body and never be forced to part again.

“I love you, I love you, _Nelyo_ ,” Fingon rasped as he slid along Maedhros’s body, his movements growing erratic and clumsy, and Maedhros knew he was close.

“Inside me!” Maedhros begged. “Finish inside me, I want to feel you – oh, _Eru_ , Finno – !”

As though they had turned to stone, both became still. Each muscle was drawn taut, bodies bent like supple bows, knotted together in a mass of sweat-slick limbs and gasping mouths and wild hair. Fingon took Maedhros’s face in his hands when he came, and kissed him, and Maedhros almost wept out of love and pleasure; together they fell in a heap, unable and unwanting to make any move to part.

“Dearest Nelyo,” Fingon murmured against Maedhros’s gleaming hair, kissing his brow and the lids of his eyes. “For overlong has my heart been desolate. But hark – no longer is it so! You have brought forth its springtime.”

“Pretty words!” Maedhros laughed at Fingon’s put-upon tone, but there was no scorn; he turned against Fingon’s body and slung a long leg across his hip, pulling up the furs to cover them both. The air was quick to cool since the sky had darkened with the coming of night, and Maedhros knew it would not be long for their sweat to become chill. They settled comfortably against the pillows and spent many long minutes merely beholding one another, teasing strands of hair or kissing ears or cheeks or lips.

“This place is bleak, and I do not like it,” Fingon breathed once darkness had fallen completely and the braziers had simmered to embers. “Yet so long as you are here, I shall be warmed.”

Maedhros, once more, smiled. He seemed to do an awful lot of that around Fingon. “Then let us remain together,” he replied, kissing him once again. Kisses, it seemed, could never be exhausted. “Ought I keep you here forever, like a fair princess?”

“I am your _king_ , you dunce,” Fingon laughed, kicking him under the covers. “And should I desire to exert my power I should drag you to Hithlum so I never have to set foot in this blasted land again.”

It was a game they played: a game of kings and squires, of princes and dragons, a tug-of-war in wills and silver-tongues. Fingon’s lips met Maedhros’s in the darkness, and they lay together without a wink of sleep all throughout the night, for to sleep would be to waste precious moments in a time governed by war and death and despair.

“You will be my despair,” Maedhros whispered against Fingon’s slumbering lips. “My King.”


End file.
